


A Night Among the Stars

by istia



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Minor Julian Bashir/Elim Garak, Nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-16 16:15:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20866286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/istia/pseuds/istia
Summary: Tom Paris's night on Deep Space Nine doesn't go quite as he'd envisioned.





	A Night Among the Stars

The bar was softly lit with seductive artfulness, glow-lamps providing warm, small circles of proto-erotic beguilement. Enough light to see--and, more to the point, be seen--by without the need to be crudely obvious. Quiet on this workaday night on a remote space station, all of the noisier denizens were gathered around the game tables at the far side of the large room. Including, thank heavens, the sharp-toothed, sharp-eyed, sharp-fisted owner who had had the nerve (the big-eared little toad) to suggest a holo-room pre-programmed to supply exactly what he, um, needed. As if Tom Paris ever had to pay for it! Really. The creature had no discernment; no wonder he was stuck way out here on the edge of nowhere.

Avoiding thinking of why he was himself stuck out here, Paris surveyed the pickings--that is, the room--once more. A few couples (and triples and quartets) were dotted amongst the tables at widespread intervals, so wrapped up in each other there was no point in even thinking about trying to catch their attention for anything other than refills, and that was hardly Tom Paris's purpose. Not that he didn't know right down to the very neutrons and electrons of his dominant Confidence gene that he could have broken into their private reveries if he wanted--he had, for one thing, determined that blonde pair in the corner really _weren't_ conjoined twins, so they _could_ obviously be separated with the right approach--it would take even him more time than he was willing to spend for a mere evening's, um, release.

Sighing with heartfelt self-empathy, Paris turned the blaze of his focus back to the singlets near at hand.

And winced.

"No one ever likes me. Dunno why. Been a mystery all my life, that has. Maybe it was part of the Genetic-modification business my parents inflicted on me. Like a law, you see. Or a computer coding built into the GM: No One Shall Like Julian."

The fellow was still prating on! Unbelievable. A bore, an absolute, first-class bore. Only problem was, he was a damned sexy bore. Downing another gulp of acidic Magauellian ale, Paris shifted his eyes about the bar in a desperate, last-ditch quest. For a different option; any option. A viable alternative solution to his very pressing problem.

"--anything past them," the really irritatingly sexy voice droned on relentlessly by his side. "Full of peccadillos, my fossils. You wouldn't believe the things they got up to in private. Could never bring any friends home; likely to find Da and Ma cavorting in the nude. Not," he added, morosely, the voice with the tingly accent dropping yet another octave further into deeply velvety come-hitherism, "that I ever had any friends not to bring home."

The pity, Paris thought, his eyes involuntarily twitching toward the doorway in hopes of new blood arriving right on cue, was that this gloomy idjit was the best-looking being in the place. Where was the justice? Where (we'd like to know) was the famous Paris luck?

Though there was, to be sure, the sweet-looking Pshaw-shan sitting at the far end of the bar. Tuning out, with an effort, the rich voice beguiling his ear, Paris peered through the gloom. Yes, she was still sending those soulful looks his way from all three eyes, which was a lovely compliment. Still.... Meeting the triple bovine orbs one last time, Paris turned regretfully away. A pity, but he knew from experience the green skin would be a real downer in the sober light of, er, deep-space mainday lighting.

Putting on his best seductive gape--the one that looked like a half-wit leer to all eyes but those in his own mirror--Paris turned all his considerable energy to the campaign to dazzle and sweep away his beguiling if dreary most-viable option; that is, nearest companion.

"--only Garak," the monotone was continuing unabated. "In all my life! No one else has _ever_ liked me. Even my parents didn't _really_ like me, after they'd GMed me. Annoyed them no end that I insisted on wearing clothes, for one thing. Even if it was only knickers. Made them even crosser when they discovered I'd sneaked in clothes for my teddy ferret. You'd think I was going to turn out to be an axe-murderer the way they went on about that faux pas.

"And now Garak's gone and left me. Said he'd be back, but will he? Always _says_ he'll be back, but he says so much it's hard to be sure of anything for certain out of everything he says so you really can't ever know if he's actually done what he says he's done or is going to do what he says he'll do. That's the dilemma in dealing with a possible-spy-ex-Cardassian-officer-not-bad-tailor-with-a-penchant-for--"

"_Everyone_ likes me," Paris interposed, batting his short, sandy, stubby eyelashes with splendid imbecility. "The fair-haired boy; the blue-eyed boy. That's me. Everyone's favorite. Captain Janeway adores her fly-boy. The big hunk, um, Commander Chakotay _loves_\--"

"And it's not like I can do anything about it. Became a doctor, just like they wanted. Got top marks at the Academy, but everyone just says that's from being GMed. _Loved_ Dax--would have done anything for her. And what did she choose? Only a strapping big gorgeous Klingon, that's what."

"I know a half-Klingon who _adores_ me. Absolutely thinks I'm the cat's meow. Thinks I'm the greatest sexiest thing on two _really long_ legs. She especially loves my ass."

Paris artfully dangled half of his piddling, pancake-flat nether region over the edge of the bar stool. Alas, the fool with the dreamy accent didn't blink even one of his huge, exquisite, sloe-dark eyes. More to the astonishing point, he wasn't stunned into silence. Not even momentarily.

"Only person who's _ever_ liked me is a sneaky tailor with a spoon on his forehead."

"As for Harry-- Eh?" Paris blinked, momentarily forgetting to tilt his head in that ever-so-fetching way that made his not-at-all-blond hair flop over his temple in an asininely boyish manner. "A spoon on his forehead?"

A wistful, heartfelt sigh seemed to ooze out of every gorgeous, despondent pore of the devastating little shrimp. "Miles got married. Dax rejected me. Now Garak's gone off somewhere. Wouldn't say where. Never does, does he? No one ever wants to tell me anything; they all seem to think I ought to know it all because I was GMed and they weren't--"

Deciding that subtlety--Paris's forte; well, _obviously_\--wasn't going to get him anywhere with this self-absorbed beauty, the plucky pilot opted for direct action. Taking the narrow shoulders in both hands, he pulled Bashir up off the stool and pressed his (thin) lips to the lushly lush mouth. Gratified by the gurgled gasp this action elicited--and blithely unaware that a certain interesting someone had, after all, arrived after Paris's last check of the door--Paris thrust his tongue into battle with dashing verve (and a bouquet of acidic Magauellian ale, by the by). Manfully disregarding the struggle the slender but wiry body waged--which the flighty fly-boy (mis)interpreted as a clear sign of soaring reciprocal passion--Paris galloped eagerly toward his certain victory.

Tom Paris--it goes without saying (but we'll say it, anyhow)--had no experience of rejection. This too, too wicked lot of (hu)mankind was not within his purview. It fell not even within the realms of astronomical possibility as conceived by his oh-so-bu-rill-yant mind. Tom Paris was a voyaging cock-a-roost, and knew it, so there. And this lovely sweetmeat of delectable delight was going to know it, too. Oh, ho, yessiree bob--

_Oof!_

The stars on Deep Space Nine, Paris thought dreamily, were remarkably pretty ones. He couldn't ever remember seeing quite such a brilliant display. And the colors! The red ones with the flashing sparkler tails were a bit blinding, and they didn't seem to be helping the drumming combo that had set-up shop in his head, but they were certainly very pretty. Which was lucky, he thought, with characteristic optimism, since he couldn't seem to see anything else. Couldn't feel much, either. Or....

Ugh. No, surely that couldn't really have been a footstep on his belly. Hallucinations, by golly. Silly how he'd forgotten the unfortunate effects of Magauellian ale on his usually iron-clad constitution. Like being in a dampening field.

Oh, wait, not quite...yes, it did seem that while all of his other senses had taken a holiday, his hearing had remained behind. How comforting. Though it was strange how the smarmy voice muttering in his ear didn't fit at all with the stellar display entertaining his optic nerve as he found himself being levered upright, held in a strong grip.

"Right this way, Lieutenant. Watch the step--oops. Never mind, the good doctor will kiss it all better. Here we are...right. In you go. I've set all the controls to deactivate automatically in two hours; your card covered the cost, so that's all right. You won't be disturbed!" The muttery voice grew fainter, not to mention less comprehensible: "Always knew saving those illicit images would be worth the worry in the end...."

Silence. The stars wheeled gaily around him. While it was a truly charming display, its persistence was becoming a bit tiresome. Making a Herculean effort--for never let it be said Tom Paris had less than a Herculean bone in his body!--the dauntlessly doughty fly-boy managed to wiggle the tip of the little finger on his left hand.

"Don't move!" a voice from beyond the stars remonstrated with softly irresistible command. "You must let me check you over first, Lieutenant...Lieutenant Tom...Prick--where's that chart got itself to?--_Paris_," the voice purred. "Do just lie still for a moment, my dear fellow, while I fetch my doctor's kit with its goodies. Then we'll soon have Lieutenant Tom-Tom feeling allll better."

Soft footsteps moved across the floor, but returned before Paris could feel more than incipient panic seeping into his Herculean bones and the footsteps incidentally brought the wonderful, purry voice back with them. "Those Cardassians can be so possessive. One never knows what they're liable to do when they feel their territory is threatened, and it appears that Garak...well, considered his territory invaded and responded instinctively." The voice sounded dreamily smug. "Though with decidedly ill manners! Just punching you like that for a complete misunderstanding. But never mind all that."

The voice turned into a veritable croon just as returning feeling allowed Paris to realize his shirt was gone and his pants were heading south at a smart pace. His fingers felt plush fabric under them; he peered upwards manfully through shooting stars to glimpse a perfect red-velvet setting for the slim figure hovering over him wearing only a stethoscope. A figure which seemed oddly flickering, a little transparent, around the edges, though that was probably just his eyes still acting oddly.

"Doctor Julian will check all of poor Lieutenant Tom-Tom's ouchies and make them all go away. We'll start with the most important area first, shall we? Mustn't take chances with an injury in a vital area; could lead to ever so many complications.

"Over we go. Ooh, yes, that is a _very_ nasty bruise on Lieutenant Tom-Tom's bum-bum...."


End file.
